The agony column

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Agony Column, by Earl Derr Biggers This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Agony Column Author: Earl Derr Biggers Release Date: October 5, 2008 [EBook #1814] Last Updated: November 1, 2016 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AGONY COLUMN *** Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger THE AGONY COLUMN by Earl Derr Biggers CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER I Two years ago, in July that historic summer was almost unbearably hot It seems, looking back, as though the big baking city in those days was meant to serve as an anteroom of torture—an inadequate bit of preparation for the hell that was soon to break in the guise of the Great War About the soda-water bar in the drug store near the Hotel Cecil many American tourists found solace in the sirups and creams of home Through the open windows of the Piccadilly tea shops you might catch glimpses of the English consuming quarts of hot tea in order to become cool It is a paradox they swear by About nine o’clock on the morning of Friday, July twenty-fourth, in that memorable year nineteen hundred and fourteen, Geoffrey West left his apartments in Adelphi Terrace and set out for breakfast at the Carlton He had found the breakfast room of that dignified hotel the coolest in London, and through some miracle, for the season had passed, strawberries might still be had there As he took his way through the crowded Strand, surrounded on all sides by honest British faces wet with honest British perspiration he thought longingly of his rooms in Washington Square, New York For West, despite the English sound of that Geoffrey, was as American as Kansas, his native state, and only pressing business was at that moment holding him in England, far from the country that glowed unusually rosy because of its remoteness At the Carlton news stand West bought two morning papers—the Times for study and the Mail for entertainment and then passed on into the restaurant His waiter—a tall soldierly Prussian, more blond than West himself—saw him coming and, with a nod and a mechanical German smile, set out for the plate of strawberries which he knew would be the first thing desired by the American West seated himself at his usual table and, spreading out the Daily Mail, sought his favorite column The first item in that column brought a delighted smile to his face: “The one who calls me Dearest is not genuine or they would write to me.” Any one at all familiar with English journalism will recognize at once what department it was that appealed most to West During his three weeks in London he had been following, with the keenest joy, the daily grist of Personal Notices in the Mail This string of intimate messages, popularly known as the Agony Column, has long been an honored institution in the English press In the days of Sherlock Holmes it was in the Times that it flourished, and many a criminal was tracked to earth after he had inserted some alluring mysterious message in it Later the Telegraph gave it room; but, with the advent of halfpenny journalism, the simple souls moved en masse to the Mail Tragedy and comedy mingle in the Agony Column Erring ones are urged to return for forgiveness; unwelcome suitors are warned that “Father has warrant prepared; fly, Dearest One!” Loves that would shame by their ardor Abelard and Heloise are frankly published—at ten cents a word—for all the town to smile at The gentleman in the brown derby states with fervor that the blonde governess who got off the tram at Shepherd’s Bush has quite won his heart Will she permit his addresses? Answer; this department For three weeks West had found this sort of thing delicious reading Best of all, he could detect in these messages nothing that was not open and innocent At their worst they were merely an effort to side-step old Lady Convention; this inclination was so rare in the British, he felt it should be encouraged Besides, he was inordinately fond of mystery and romance, and these engaging twins hovered always about that column So, while waiting for his strawberries, he smiled over the ungrammatical outburst of the young lady who had come to doubt the genuineness of him who called her Dearest He passed on to the second item of the morning Spoke one whose heart had been completely conquered: MY LADY sleeps She of raven tresses Corner seat from Victoria, Wednesday night Carried program Gentleman answering inquiry desires acquaintance Reply here —LE ROI West made a mental note to watch for the reply of raven tresses The next message proved to be one of Aye’s lyrics—now almost a daily feature of the column: DEAREST: Tender loving wishes to my dear one Only to be with you now and always None “fairer in my eyes.” Your name is music to me I love you more than life itself, my own beautiful darling, my proud sweetheart, my joy, my all! Jealous of everybody Kiss your dear hands for me Love you only Thine ever —AYE Which, reflected West, was generous of Aye—at ten cents a word—and in striking contrast to the penurious lover who wrote, farther along in the column: —loveu dearly; wantocu; longing; missu— But those extremely personal notices ran not alone to love Mystery, too, was present, especially in the aquatic utterance: DEFIANT MERMAID: Not mine Alligators bitingu now ‘Tis well; delighted —FIRST FISH And the rather sanguinary suggestion: DE Box: First round; tooth gone Finale You will FORGET ME NOT At this point West’s strawberries arrived and even the Agony Column could not hold his interest When the last red berry was eaten he turned back to read: WATERLOO: Wed 11:53 train Lady who left in taxi and waved, care to know gent, gray coat? —SINCERE Also the more dignified request put forward in: GREAT CENTRAL: Gentleman who saw lady in bonnet 9 Monday morning in Great Central Hotel lift would greatly value opportunity of obtaining introduction This exhausted the joys of the Agony Column for the day, and West, like the solid citizen he really was, took up the Times to discover what might be the morning’s news A great deal of space was given to the appointment of a new principal for Dulwich College The affairs of the heart, in which that charming creature, Gabrielle Ray, was at the moment involved, likewise claimed attention And in a quite unimportant corner, in a most unimportant manner, it was related that Austria had sent an ultimatum to Serbia West had read part way through this stupid little piece of news, when suddenly the Thunderer and all its works became an uninteresting blur A girl stood just inside the door of the Carlton breakfast room Yes; he should have pondered that despatch from Vienna But such a girl! It adds nothing at all to say that her hair was a dull sort of gold; her eyes violet Many girls have been similarly blessed It was her manner; the sweet way she looked with those violet eyes through a battalion of head waiters and resplendent managers; her air of being at home here in the Carlton or anywhere else that fate might drop her down Unquestionably she came from oversea—from the States She stepped forward into the restaurant And now slipped also into view, as part of the background for her, a middle-aged man, who wore the conventional black of the statesman He, too, bore the American label unmistakably Nearer and nearer to West she drew, and he saw that in her hand she carried a copy of the Daily Mail West’s waiter was a master of the art of suggesting that no table in the room was worth sitting at save that at which he held ready a chair Thus he lured the girl and her companion to repose not five feet from where West sat This accomplished, he whipped out his order book, and stood with pencil poised, like a reporter in an American play “The strawberries are delicious,” he said in honeyed tones The man looked at the girl, a question in his eyes “Not for me, dad,” she said “I hate them! Grapefruit, please.” As the waiter hurried past, West hailed him He spoke in loud defiant tones “Another plate of the strawberries!” he commanded “They are better than ever to-day.” For a second, as though he were part of the scenery, those violet eyes met his with a casual impersonal glance Then their owner slowly spread out her own copy of the Mail “What’s the news?” asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass of water “Don’t ask me,” the girl answered, without looking up “I’ve found something more entertaining than news Do you know—the English papers run humorous columns! Only they aren’t called that They’re called Personal Notices And such notices!” She leaned across the table “Listen to this: ‘Dearest: Tender loving wishes to my dear one Only to be with you now and always None “fairer in my eyes.”— The man looked uncomfortably about him “Hush!” he pleaded “It doesn’t sound very nice to me.” “Nice!” cried the girl “Oh, but it is—quite nice And so deliciously open and aboveboard ‘Your name is music to me I love you more—‘” “What do we see to-day?” put in her father hastily “We’re going down to the City and have a look at the Temple Thackeray lived there once—and Oliver Goldsmith—” “All right—the Temple it is.” “Then the Tower of London It’s full of the most romantic associations Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes were murdered Aren’t you thrilled?” “I am if you say so.” “You’re a dear! I promise not to tell the people back in Texas that you showed any interest in kings and such—if you will show just a little Otherwise I’ll spread the awful news that you took off your hat when King George went by.” The statesman smiled West felt that he, who had no business to, was smiling with him The waiter returned, bringing grapefruit, and the strawberries West had ordered Without another look toward West, the girl put down her paper and began her breakfasting As often as he dared, however, West looked at her With patriotic pride he told himself: “Six months in Europe, and the most beautiful thing I’ve seen comes from back home!” When he rose reluctantly twenty minutes later his two compatriots were still at table, discussing their plans for the day As is usual in such cases, the girl arranged, the man agreed With one last glance in her direction, West went out on the parched pavement of Haymarket Slowly he walked back to his rooms Work was waiting there for him; but instead of getting down to it, he sat on the balcony of his study, gazing out on the courtyard that had been his chief reason for selecting those apartments Here, in the heart of the city, was a bit of the countryside transported—the green, trim, neatly tailored countryside that is the most satisfying thing in England There were walls on which the ivy climbed high, narrow paths that ran between blooming beds of flowers, and opposite his windows a seldom-opened, most romantic gate As he sat looking down he seemed to see there below him the girl of the Carlton Now she sat on the rustic bench; now she bent above the envious flowers; now she stood at the gate that opened out to a hot sudden bit of the city And as he watched her there in the garden she would never enter, as he reflected unhappily that probably he would see her no more—the idea came to him At first he put it from him as absurd, impossible She was, to apply a fine word much abused, a lady; he supposedly a gentleman Their sort did not such things If he yielded to this temptation she would be shocked, angry, and from him would slip that one chance in a thousand he had—the chance of meeting her somewhere, some day And yet—and yet—She, too, had found the Agony Column entertaining and —quite nice There was a twinkle in her eyes that bespoke a fondness for romance She was human, fun-loving—and, above all, the joy of youth was in her heart Nonsense! West went inside and walked the floor The idea was preposterous Still—he smiled—it was filled with amusing possibilities Too bad he must put it forever away and settle down to this stupid work! Forever away? Well— On the next morning, which was Saturday, West did not breakfast at the Carlton The girl, however, did As she and her father sat down the old man said: “I see you’ve got your Daily Mail.” “Of course!” she answered “I couldn’t do without it Grapefruit—yes.” She began to read Presently her cheeks flushed and she put the paper down “What is it?” asked the Texas statesman “To-day,” she answered sternly, “you do the British Museum You’ve put it off long enough.” The old man sighed Fortunately he did not ask to see the Mail If he had, a quarter way down the column of personal notices he would have been enraged— or perhaps only puzzled—to read: CARLTON RESTAURANT: Nine A.M Friday morning Will the young woman who preferred grapefruit to strawberries permit the young man who had two plates of the latter to say he will not rest until he discovers some mutual friend, that they may meet and laugh over this column together? Lucky for the young man who liked strawberries that his nerve had failed him and he was not present at the Carlton that morning! He would have been quite overcome to see the stern uncompromising look on the beautiful face of a lady at her grapefruit So overcome, in fact, that he would probably have left the room at once, and thus not seen the mischievous smile that came in time to the lady’s face—not seen that she soon picked up the paper again and read, with that smile, to the end of the column CHAPTER VIII So began an anxious day, not only for the girl from Texas but for all London as well Her father was bursting with new diplomatic secrets recently extracted from his bootblack adviser Later, in Washington, he was destined to be a marked man because of his grasp of the situation abroad No one suspected the bootblack, the power behind the throne; but the gentleman from Texas was destined to think of that able diplomat many times, and to wish that he still had him at his feet to advise him “War by midnight, sure!” he proclaimed on the morning of this fateful Tuesday “I tell you, Marian, we’re lucky to have our tickets on the Saronia Five thousand dollars wouldn’t buy them from me to-day! I’ll be a happy man when we go aboard that liner day after to-morrow.” Day after to-morrow! The girl wondered At any rate, she would have that last letter then—the letter that was to contain whatever defense her young friend could offer to explain his dastardly act She waited eagerly for that final epistle The day dragged on, bringing at its close England’s entrance into the war; and the Carlton bootblack was a prophet not without honor in a certain Texas heart And on the following morning there arrived a letter which was torn open by eager trembling fingers The letter spoke: DEAR LADY JUDGE: This is by far the hardest to write of all the letters you have had from me For twenty-four hours I have been planning it Last night I walked on the Embankment while the hansoms jogged by and the lights of the tramcars danced on Westminster Bridge just as the fireflies used to in the garden back of our house in Kansas While I walked I planned To-day, shut up in my rooms, I was also planning And yet now, when I sit down to write, I am still confused; still at a loss where to begin and what to say, once I have begun At the close of my last letter I confessed to you that it was I who murdered Captain Fraser-Freer That is the truth Soften the blow as I may, it all comes down to that The bitter truth! Not a week ago—last Thursday night at seven—I climbed our dark stairs and plunged a knife into the heart of that defenseless gentleman If only I could point out to you that he had offended me in some way; if I could prove to you that his death was necessary to me, as it really was to Inspector Bray—then there might be some hope of your ultimate pardon But, alas! he had been most kind to me— kinder than I have allowed you to guess from my letters There was no actual need to do away with him Where shall I look for a defense? At the moment the only defense I can think of is simply this—the captain knows I killed him! Even as I write this, I hear his footsteps above me, as I heard them when I sat here composing my first letter to you He is dressing for dinner We are to dine together at Romano’s And there, my lady, you have finally the answer to the mystery that has—I hope—puzzled you I killed my friend the captain in my second letter to you, and all the odd developments that followed lived only in my imagination as I sat here beside the green-shaded lamp in my study, plotting how I should write seven letters to you that would, as the novel advertisements say, grip your attention to the very end Oh, I am guilty—there is no denying that And, though I do not wish to ape old Adam and imply that I was tempted by a lovely woman, a strict regard for the truth forces me to add that there is also guilt upon your head How so? Go back to that message you inserted in the Daily Mail: “The grapefruit lady’s great fondness for mystery and romance—” You did not know it, of course; but in those words you passed me a challenge I could not resist; for making plots is the business of life—more, the breath of life—to me I have made many; and perhaps you have followed some of them, on Broadway Perhaps you have seen a play of mine announced for early production in London There was mention of it in the program at the Palace That was the business which kept me in England The project has been abandoned now and I am free to go back home Thus you see that when you granted me the privilege of those seven letters you played into my hands So, said I, she longs for mystery and romance Then, by the Lord Harry, she shall have them! And it was the tramp of Captain Fraser-Freer’s boots above my head that showed me the way A fine, stalwart, cordial fellow—the captain—who has been very kind to me since I presented my letter of introduction from his cousin, Archibald Enwright Poor Archie! A meek, correct little soul, who would be horrified beyond expression if he knew that of him I had made a spy and a frequenter of Limehouse! The dim beginnings of the plot were in my mind when I wrote that first letter, suggesting that all was not regular in the matter of Archie’s note of introduction Before I wrote my second, I knew that nothing but the death of Fraser-Freer would do me I recalled that Indian knife I had seen upon his desk, and from that moment he was doomed At that time I had no idea how I should solve the mystery But I had read and wondered at those four strange messages in the Mail, and I resolved that they must figure in the scheme of things The fourth letter presented difficulties until I returned from dinner that night and saw a taxi waiting before our quiet house Hence the visit of the woman with the lilac perfume I am afraid the Wilhelmstrasse would have little use for a lady spy who advertised herself in so foolish a manner Time for writing the fifth letter arrived I felt that I should now be placed under arrest I had a faint little hope that you would be sorry about that Oh, I’m a brute, I know! Early in the game I had told the captain of the cruel way in which I had disposed of him He was much amused; but he insisted, absolutely, that he must be vindicated before the close of the series, and I was with him there He had been so bully about it all A chance remark of his gave me my solution He said he had it on good authority that the chief of the Czar’s bureau for capturing spies in Russia was himself a spy And so—why not a spy in Scotland Yard? I assure you, I am most contrite as I set all this down here You must remember that when I began my story there was no idea of war Now all Europe is aflame; and in the face of the great conflict, the awful suffering to come, I and my little plot begin to look—well, I fancy you know just how we look Forgive me I am afraid I can never find the words to tell you how important it seemed to interest you in my letters—to make you feel that I am an entertaining person worthy of your notice That morning when you entered the Carlton breakfast room was really the biggest in my life I felt as though you had brought with you through that doorway—But I have no right to say it I have the right to say nothing save that now—it is all left to you If I have offended, then I shall never hear from you again The captain will be here in a moment It is near the hour set and he is never late He is not to return to India, but expects to be drafted for the Expeditionary Force that will be sent to the Continent I hope the German Army will be kinder to him than I was! My name is Geoffrey West I live at nineteen Adelphi Terrace—in rooms that look down on the most wonderful garden in London That, at least, is real It is very quiet there to-night, with the city and its continuous hum of war and terror seemingly a million miles away Shall we meet at last? The answer rests entirely with you But, believe me, I shall be anxiously waiting to know; and if you decide to give me a chance to explain—to denounce myself to you in person—then a happy man will say good-by to this garden and these dim dusty rooms and follow you to the ends of the earth—aye, to Texas itself! Captain Fraser-Freer is coming down the stairs Is this good-by forever, my lady? With all my soul, I hope not YOUR CONTRITE STRAWBERRY MAN CHAPTER IX Words are futile things with which to attempt a description of the feelings of the girl at the Carlton as she read this, the last letter of seven written to her through the medium of her maid, Sadie Haight Turning the pages of the dictionary casually, one might enlist a few—for example, amazement, anger, unbelief, wonder Perhaps, to go back to the letter a, even amusement We may leave her with the solution to the puzzle in her hand, the Saronia a little more than a day away, and a weirdly mixed company of emotions struggling in her soul And leaving her thus, let us go back to Adelphi Terrace and a young man exceedingly worried Once he knew that his letter was delivered, Mr Geoffrey West took his place most humbly on the anxious seat There he writhed through the long hours of Wednesday morning Not to prolong this painful picture, let us hasten to add that at three o’clock that same afternoon came a telegram that was to end suspense He tore it open and read: STRAWBERRY MAN: I shall never, never forgive, you But we are sailing tomorrow on the Saronia Were you thinking of going home soon? MARIAN A LARNED Thus it happened that, a few minutes later, to the crowd of troubled Americans in a certain steamship booking office there was added a wild-eyed young man who further upset all who saw him To weary clerks he proclaimed in fiery tones that he must sail on the Saronia There seemed to be no way of appeasing him The offer of a private liner would not have interested him He raved and tore his hair He ranted All to no avail There was, in plain American, “nothing doing!” Damp but determined, he sought among the crowd for one who had bookings on the Saronia He could find, at first, no one so lucky; but finally he ran across Tommy Gray Gray, an old friend, admitted when pressed that he had a passage on that most desirable boat But the offer of all the king’s horses and all the king’s gold left him unmoved Much, he said, as he would have liked to oblige, he and his wife were determined They would sail It was then that Geoffrey West made a compact with his friend He secured from him the necessary steamer labels and it was arranged that his baggage was to go aboard the Saronia as the property of Gray “But,” protested Gray, “even suppose you do put this through; suppose you do manage to sail without a ticket—where will you sleep? In chains somewhere below, I fancy.” “No matter!” bubbled West “I’ll sleep in the dining saloon, in a lifeboat, on the lee scuppers—whatever they are I’ll sleep in the air, without any visible support! I’ll sleep anywhere—nowhere—but I’ll sail! And as for irons—they don’t make ‘em strong enough to hold me.” At five o’clock on Thursday afternoon the Saronia slipped smoothly away from a Liverpool dock Twenty-five hundred Americans—about twice the number the boat could comfortably carry—stood on her decks and cheered Some of those in that crowd who had millions of money were booked for the steerage All of them were destined to experience during that crossing hunger, annoyance, discomfort They were to be stepped on, sat on, crowded and jostled They suspected as much when the boat left the dock Yet they cheered! Gayest among them was Geoffrey West, triumphant amid the confusion He was safely aboard; the boat was on its way! Little did it trouble him that he went as a stowaway, since he had no ticket; nothing but an overwhelming determination to be on the good ship Saronia That night as the Saronia stole along with all deck lights out and every porthole curtained, West saw on the dim deck the slight figure of a girl who meant much to him She was standing staring out over the black waters; and, with wildly beating heart, he approached her, not knowing what to say, but feeling that a start must be made somehow “Please pardon me for addressing—” he began “But I want to tell you—” She turned, startled; and then smiled an odd little smile, which he could not see in the dark “I beg your pardon,” she said “I haven’t met you, that I recall—” “I know,” he answered “That’s going to be arranged to-morrow Mrs Tommy Gray says you crossed with them—” “Mere steamer acquaintances,” the girl replied coldly “Of course! But Mrs Gray is a darling—she’ll fix that all right I just want to say, before to-morrow comes—” “Wouldn’t it be better to wait?” “I can’t! I’m on this ship without a ticket I’ve got to go down in a minute and tell the purser that Maybe he’ll throw me overboard; maybe he’ll lock me up I don’t know what they do with people like me Maybe they’ll make a stoker of me And then I shall have to stoke, with no chance of seeing you again So that’s why I want to say now—I’m sorry I have such a keen imagination It carried me away—really it did! I didn’t mean to deceive you with those letters; but, once I got started—You know, don’t you, that I love you with all my heart? From the moment you came into the Carlton that morning I—” “Really—Mr.—Mr.—” “West—Geoffrey West I adore you! What can I do to prove it? I’m going to prove it—before this ship docks in the North River Perhaps I’d better talk to your father, and tell him about the Agony Column and those seven letters—” “You’d better not! He’s in a terribly bad humor The dinner was awful, and the steward said we’d be looking back to it and calling it a banquet before the voyage ends Then, too, poor dad says he simply can not sleep in the stateroom they’ve given him—” “All the better! I’ll see him at once If he stands for me now he’ll stand for me any time! And, before I go down and beard a harsh-looking purser in his den, won’t you believe me when I say I’m deeply in love—” “In love with mystery and romance! In love with your own remarkable powers of invention! Really, I can’t take you seriously—” “Before this voyage is ended you’ll have to I’ll prove to you that I care If the purser lets me go free—” “You have much to prove,” the girl smiled “To-morrow—when Mrs Tommy Gray introduces us—I may accept you—as a builder of plots I happen to know you are good But—as—It’s too silly! Better go and have it out with that purser.” Reluctantly he went In five minutes he was back The girl was still standing by the rail “It’s all right!” West said “I thought I was doing something original, but there were eleven other people in the same fix One of them is a billionaire from Wall Street The purser collected some money from us and told us to sleep on the deck —if we could find room.” “I’m sorry,” said the girl “I rather fancied you in the role of stoker.” She glanced about her at the dim deck “Isn’t this exciting? I’m sure this voyage is going to be filled with mystery and romance.” “I know it will be full of romance,” West answered “And the mystery will be —can I convince you—” “Hush!” broke in the girl “Here comes father! I shall be very happy to meet you—to-morrow Poor dad! he’s looking for a place to sleep.” Five days later poor dad, having slept each night on deck in his clothes while the ship plowed through a cold drizzle, and having starved in a sadly depleted dining saloon, was a sight to move the heart of a political opponent Immediately after a dinner that had scarcely satisfied a healthy Texas appetite he lounged gloomily in the deck chair which was now his stateroom Jauntily Geoffrey West came and sat at his side “Mr Larned,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.” And, with a kindly smile, he took from his pocket and handed over a large, warm baked potato The Texan eagerly accepted the gift “Where’d you get it?” he demanded, breaking open his treasure “That’s a secret,” West answered “But I can get as many as I want Mr Larned, I can say this—you will not go hungry any longer And there’s something else I ought to speak of I am sort of aiming to marry your daughter.” Deep in his potato the Congressman spoke: “What does she say about it?” “Oh, she says there isn’t a chance But—” “Then look out, my boy! She’s made up her mind to have you.” “I’m glad to hear you say that I really ought to tell you who I am Also, I want you to know that, before your daughter and I met, I wrote her seven letters —” “One minute,” broke in the Texan “Before you go into all that, won’t you be a good fellow and tell me where you got this potato?” West nodded “Sure!” he said; and, leaning over, he whispered For the first time in days a smile appeared on the face of the older man “My boy,” he said, “I feel I’m going to like you Never mind the rest I heard all about you from your friend Gray; and as for those letters—they were the only thing that made the first part of this trip bearable Marian gave them to me to read the night we came on board.” Suddenly from out of the clouds a long-lost moon appeared, and bathed that over-crowded ocean liner in a flood of silver West left the old man to his potato and went to find the daughter She was standing in the moonlight by the rail of the forward deck, her eyes staring dreamily ahead toward the great country that had sent her forth lightheartedly for to adventure and to see She turned as West came up “I have just been talking with your father,” he said “He tells me he thinks you mean to take me, after all.” She laughed “To-morrow night,” she answered, “will be our last on board I shall give you my final decision then.” “But that is twenty-four hours away! Must I wait so long as that?” “A little suspense won’t hurt you I can’t forget those long days when I waited for your letters—” “I know! But can’t you give me—just a little hint—here—to-night?” “I am without mercy—absolutely without mercy!” And then, as West’s fingers closed over her hand, she added softly: “Not even the suspicion of a hint, my dear—except to tell you that—my answer will be— yes.” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Agony Column, by Earl Derr Biggers *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AGONY COLUMN *** ***** This file should be named 1814-h.htm or 1814-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/1/1814/ Produced by An Anonymous Project Gutenberg Volunteer, and David Widger Updated editions will replace the previous one the old editions will be renamed Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties Special rules, set forth in 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This exhausted the joys of the Agony Column for the day, and West, like the solid citizen he really was, took up the Times to discover what might be the morning’s news A great deal of space was given to the. .. How bromidic to note it—we have many tastes in common! EX-STRAWBERRY MAN The third letter from her correspondent of the Agony Column increased in the mind of the lovely young woman at the Carlton the excitement and tension the second had created... When I think of America, and how by this time the reporters would be swarming through our house if this thing had happened over there, I am the more astonished But then, I know these English papers The great Joe Chamberlain died the other night at ten, and it was noon the next day